


hold

by lipsstainedbloodred



Series: these are the ways that i love you [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cuddling, Gerry the cat, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martin Blackwood needs to let someone take care of him for once ffs, Post-Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:01:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21552727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipsstainedbloodred/pseuds/lipsstainedbloodred
Summary: Martin is very good at taking care of people, even when a person doesn’t want to let themselves be taken care of. In many ways, Jon reminds Martin of his mother. That’s not really fair because they’re absolutely nothing alike, but there’s something in that bitter turn of the lip when he shows up with tea or coffee or scones that sometimes makes Martin feel immaterial. Or, it used to.Or, the fic where Martin Blackwood finally lets himself be held.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: these are the ways that i love you [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553053
Comments: 30
Kudos: 595





	hold

Martin is very good at taking care of people, even when a person doesn’t want to let themselves be taken care of. In many ways, Jon reminds Martin of his mother. That’s not really fair because they’re absolutely nothing alike, but there’s something in that bitter turn of the lip when he shows up with tea or coffee or scones that sometimes makes Martin feel _immaterial_. Or, it used to. 

Jon is getting better about letting himself be taken care of. He smiles now when Martin brings him his tea or tells him to eat. He leans into the press of hands at his shoulder when Martin walks by and sometimes tip-toes up for a kiss and a thank you before Martin can walk away. It settles something warm and soft in his chest. 

Taking care of someone is a point of pride, and it is one of the very few ways that Martin Blackwood feels useful in the world.

He likes holding Jon when they go to sleep at night, their hands and legs tangled together and Jon small and fragile up against him. Martin has always been big. Over 6’5, large hands, broad shoulders. His mother had been small too, even before the sickness had made her frail and angry. 

_(He needs to stop thinking like that. Putting those two side by side. Jon and his mother. His mother and Jon.)_

Jon presses up close to him on bad nights, his breath sharp and quick like a cornered animal against the soft skin of Martin’s throat, his eyes-all of them-squeezed tightly shut and Martin just...gathers him close. Wraps his body around Jon like he can protect him from the world, like he can shelter him from his own thoughts. Places his hands on the dark smooth skin of his back and rubs gentle circles at the base of his spine, humming tunelessly into the top of Jon’s head.

Jon always smells like pine trees and Martin’s shampoo, the cedar one that he spends too much money on but loves it precisely because of the way it smells in Jon’s hair. Sometimes it takes hours for him to relax into it, but eventually Jon will go limp against him and let himself be held. Martin thanks him for it by pressing his lips gently to Jon’s forehead.

Martin is good at taking care of people, and he takes a particular pride in taking care of Jon; but it goes against every fiber of Martin’s being to let himself be taken care of. 

It’s, well, it’s not as if he thinks he doesn’t deserve it- _even though that’s exactly what he thinks_ -but it just always has a sting of wrongness to it. It unsettles his heart when Jon brings him his tea while he’s in the living room watching telly, even though he was sure just a few minutes ago Jon was deep asleep in their bedroom taking a nap with their cat Gerry. It makes his breath catch when Jon holds his hand in the queue at the cafe and orders for him. It aches in his bones when Jon wakes him up from a nightmare, those quick, clever hands brushing the tears from his cheeks. 

_(He would blame the Lonely for it, if he could, but Martin understands deep down that this is older than that.)_

Martin tries to turn it around if he can. If Jon brings him his tea then he’ll get up to get them biscuits. If Jon orders for him at the cafe then Martin will bring out his own card to pay. If Jon wakes him up from a nightmare then Martin will fold Jon against him until he is small and held and Martin is once again his strength and shield. 

“Why won’t you let me take care of you?” Jon asks. He’s elbow deep in soap suds, washing up their brunch plates for Martin to dry. An errant smear of soap has appeared on his cheekbone but he makes no attempt to wipe it away. 

It’s a good day. They’d both slept soundly through the night with no nightmares, and it was one of those few lovely London days where the sun had decided to grace them all with its presence. Barely early spring, the soft gold light of mid morning breaking through the creeping chill left over from winter, and the birds are already at their window singing. 

Martin drops the mug he’s holding on to the floor and it shatters. 

Jon makes a startled noise and snaps his head up at the crash of ceramic against tile. “Martin, are you alright?” He asks, “You didn’t cut yourself, did you?”

“No,” Martin breathes. His heart is seizing in his chest and panic grips it like a vice. “No, it’s-it’s fine I-” His hands are shaking. Why are his hands shaking? “Broom. I’ll get the broom.”

“No.” Jon says firmly. He steps carefully over the broken shards. Oh, and that was Jon’s favorite mug too. The novelty one that Georgie got him in uni when she’d gone to Edinburgh for a festival. His hands are still wet and soapy when they rest on Martin’s cheeks. All Martin can think about is that Jon has to stretch himself up to reach so he makes himself lean down without thinking. If anything Jon looks impossibly sadder at that. “I’m sorry.”

No that’s...that doesn’t make sense. Jon hasn’t done anything. It’s _Martin_ that-

“Martin,” Jon says, and it reminds him of the way he’d said it in the Lonely. Desperate to be heard. “It’s alright Martin, I’ve got you.”

At some point he must have started to cry because Jon’s face goes a little out of focus. Martin ducks his head. “I’m fine.” He croaks.

“You’re not,” Jon insists, his fingers pressing into Martin’s jaw, his cheek, “it’s okay that you’re not. I’m _here_ , Martin, you can trust me.”

It’s not about a lack of trust.

_(But isn’t it? Isn’t it always about a lack of trust? The fall doesn’t surprise you when you know the floor won’t be there. When you’re the one that decided to take the step off the edge. You never expect anyone to be at the bottom to catch you.)_

Martin heaves. He feels shattered open on the floor. His shoulders quake and Jon pulls him down and close, fingers making his shirt wet and soap slick. “Let me,” He hears Jon whisper against him, “I want to. Let me.”

Gerry is at his feet, winding between his legs and crying pitifully up at the two of them.

Jon presses their foreheads together, both of his eyes closed. An errant one on his collar bone, iris shining gold, blinks up at him before it closes itself too. “I’m sorry I did that to you,” He says, “I should have realized asking like that would have been...ill received. That was my fault.”

“Jon, you didn’t-”

Jon digs his soapy fingers into the back of Martin’s neck. “I did. I’m sorry.” His lips are suddenly there, soft and sweet against the curve of Martin’s jaw, the soft pudge of his cheek. “Why don’t you take Gerry and go have a lie down, hm? I’ll finish up in here and then join you.”

“Have a lie-? Jon, it’s barely noon.”

“I know that,” Jon says harshly, pulling back just enough to look Martin in the eye, and then his face softens. “I know.” He says, gentle. “It’s- call it a rest day.”

A rest day. That’s what Martin had always called them, back when Jon was working himself down to the bone in the Archive. He’d never imagined the phrase would be turned back on himself.

“Martin?” 

“Okay,” Martin says. He sounds tired. He feels tired, the panic from earlier replaced with a bone deep sense of weariness. “Yeah, okay.” He bends down to pick up Gerry who ceases his crying in favor of purring and trying to dig his head into Martin’s chest. Jon kisses his shoulder before he goes and carefully steps around the mess on the floor again to find their broom. 

Martin likes their bedroom. It’s soft, cozy. Cream colored walls and piles of pillows and warm blankets. There’s a cat safe plant in the corner Jon is desperately trying to keep alive set next to a floor to ceiling dark wood bookshelf. Martin curls himself back under the covers and Gerry digs in next to him, his tail flicking to strike Martin’s neck. Martin digs his fingers into warm fur and closes his eyes, listening to the distant sounds of Jon bumping around in the kitchen and cleaning up their mess.

His mess.

Christ.

He presses his face into Gerry’s side and feels the rumble of his purr against his skin. He stays like that until he hears the bedroom door creak open. Jon sits down on the edge of the bed and runs a hand through Martin’s hair. 

“I want to try something,” Jon says.

Martin gives a kind of muffled agreement and lets himself be prodded into scooting closer to the center of the bed. He doesn’t realize what Jon’s doing until Jon slips under the covers behind him and pulls him close, back to chest.

Jon digs his chin into Martin’s shoulder and holds him, arm tucked tight around his waist. Martin tries to turn over so he can pull Jon into him, but Jon stops him by clamping down tighter around his waist. Jon tangles their legs together, eating up any remaining distance between them. “Let me hold you,” Jon says against his ear.

“I’m too big.” Martin protests.

“You’re not,” Jon says and presses his lips to the delicate skin behind Martin’s ear, “not to me. You’re perfect.”

“Stop.”

“Okay,” Jon whispers, trying to soothe the tension out of Martin’s shoulders, “okay.” 

Martin hiccups a little sob and presses his face back into Gerry’s fur. The cat makes an inquisitive little ‘mrrp’ noise but doesn’t move. Jon doesn’t hush him, or tell him to stop crying. Jon just...he just holds him. The same way Martin holds him after a nightmare. Chest against his face, face against his neck, a shield against the rest of the world.

It seems like forever before Martin finally relaxes into Jon, before the tears stop and he feels carved open and hollow. 

“I love you,” Jon says, and noses at the fine hairs on the back of Martin’s neck, “I love you.”

Martin shakes and gasps out, “I love you too.”

“Thank you.” 

He doesn’t say what for. He doesn’t really need to. Martin finally goes limp and still under Jon’s sleight weight. 

Jon kisses the back of his neck, his shoulder, the top of his spine. Anywhere he can reach without untangling the two of them. “Thank you,” He says again after each one, “Thank you. Thank you.” Like taking care of Martin is...like it’s a privilege. 

Maybe it is. Martin is a little scared to ask.

Martin doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he does know it’s the best he’s slept in years.


End file.
